PARLOR TRICKS
"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."
― Arthur Conan Doyle from The Boscombe Valley Mystery
Special thanks to the ever-lovely englishtutor and the intriguing Honourable for their support and encouragement of my writing.
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had been waiting at least five minutes on Stockwell Park Road in front of a block of contemprary yellow-brick flats for Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson when their cab finally pulled up. As soon as they were within earshot, he fed them the tantalizing fact he just couldn't hold in any longer.
"This man just went back to get his brolly, and no one has seen him since."
Standing in the carpark, Greg suppressed a grin as he observed the unlikely partners walking toward him. The singular genius, whom the DI had regularly consulted for many years on the most difficult cases—well before the partnership with Watson began—was dressed in his unique style: tousled raven curls falling in wild abandon over the flashy upturned collar of his black greatcoat, which billowed open as he sauntered over. It amazed Greg how Sherlock's appearance was a total contradiction of the tightly wound man, who not only closed off his emotions with detachment, but who mastered off-putting, haughty criticisms about everything and everyone. Maybe he knotted his scarf too tight, the DI thought. Aloof and disdainful behavior had ensured Sherlock had remained friendless for all the years Lestrade had known him—until John came along.
But then, who couldn't get along with John Watson? The organized, ex-army doctor, buttoned up in his Haversack jacket, close-cropped blond hair salted with slivers of grey, was the opposite of 'uptight.' Unless justifiably riled, he usually showed the greatest civility, and was completely likeable in every way. They were indeed an odd pair, and it tickled Greg to realize they had been successfully working together for well more than a year despite their differences.
"Hullo, Sherlock. John." Lestrade's gravelly voice didn't betray his amusement. He had no interest in setting Sherlock Holmes off before he had had a chance to entice him with a new mystery.
Sherlock gave the DI the slightest nod before becoming distracted by large flocks of chunky house sparrows that swooped and chirped their spring-songs in the chilly, but pleasant, morning air. Immediately, he pulled out his mobile and inputted a search.
"Off duty, Detective Inspector?" Unlike his brooding partner, John greeted Greg with an easy handshake and earnest eye contact.
"Yeah, I know. It's Sunday. Sometimes I do take a day for myself. This is turning out not to be one of them." He chuckled with a lightheartedness brought on by the early May sunshine.
"Thought I'd bring you boys on board," the off-duty Met Detective Inspector continued. "It's a mystery, but after their preliminary investigation, the Department can't classify it as crime scene."
"Sparrows!" Sherlock had narrowed his eyes, spotting the nests of the resilient little birds known for colonizing tiny crevices in buildings. "As far as I could see," he mumbled to no one in particular, "the apartment structure and nearby buildings are infested with them."
"Didn't invite you here for twitching, mate!" Greg jested, quite surprised by the consulting detective's apparent interest in the feathered frenzy overhead than the case at hand.
"Tell me you're not taking stupid lessons from Anderson. House sparrows are not rare birds, Lestrade," Sherlock countered with smooth logic, "in fact far from it. They are all too common and prolific. Rather, I'm here at your request to answer a question. But first I have a few of my own: This man went back to get his umbrella, you say. Went back where exactly?"
"Good. You had me worried." Greg grinned, then pointed with his head, "the guy went in there," indicating one four-unit above-ground structure with exposed poured-cement basement walls at street level looming before them. "I'm told his flat happens to be in the oldest un-refurbished unit in the back. Upon the request of a personal friend, I came here this morning to see it for myself."
"Yes. 'Nothing like first-hand evidence,' I always say," Sherlock reminded the Inspector. "Not even I can deduce the answers without sufficient data."
"Well, here's more data for you," Lestrade pointed to the top of the broad cement stairs, "See up those steps. That's the main entrance for all tenants."
"And the door he was last seen entering," John acknowledged, giving Greg the courtesy of his full attention.
Sherlock, on the other hand, was still more typically disengaged in what seemed like peripheral data gathering, but Lestrade knew too well, his sharp ears were listening.
"Yeah, that's the only door. Last seen going in at half two." Lestrade scratched his head thoughtfully, attempting to remember details from the report. "I'm told the renovations in three out of the four flats have taken nearly half a year. Like I said earlier, the back unit, the man's flat, has not been renovated. So far, only the front flat has been rented, and the other one is about to be, whilst the renovations in the third is nearing completion. Supposedly, the updates have made the units more spacious with multiple bedrooms."
"People were waiting for him?" Sherlock's flat voice belied the keen interest John has seen earlier when Lestrade had texted them for help.
"Not people. One person. Amy Sanders, a girl, young lady, twenty-one years old. You know the sort: generally average in weight and height, dresses down her looks, part-time student and part-time wait staff. Identified herself as a friend, not yet a girlfriend, in her words."
"Hmm. The average sort…not yet girlfriend…," Sherlock pressed his index finger vertically against his lips and tapped softly.
Lestrade had learned from John to gauge how far Sherlock retreated into his Mind Palace by counting the number of these lip-taps, one of several quirky tics he subconsciously manifested during intense concentration; the longer the consulting detective lingered in quiet thought, the longer the tapping continued, the deeper the challenge.
"What about other doors?" Unexpectedly, Sherlock made a quick exit from his Mind Palace.
Three taps? Apparently whatever he needed to store or retrieve was easily located, the DI surmised. As if he dropped the thought and ran back out.
"Yes, those were checked out." Greg was in a good mood he wanted to preserve. Being well-informed about the incident so he could field all questions from the consulting detective was the only way to keep everyone happy. "Listen, Sherlock, this should make you happy."
"That's still to be determined."
Sherlock's pointed remark, dripping with sarcasm, had raised a slight grin from John, Greg noticed. It's on purpose! The bastard likes amusing John with his smug asides.
"Really, listen, guys!" Lestrade pressed. "The report was clear about the series of footprints in the hallway. With all the plaster dust from the ongoing construction that coated the entire corridor, the occupants' foot traffic was easily traced. Pretty simple really. Front tenants were out early in the morning, along with the flatmates before the work began. The plastering and sanding work occurred after they had gone. The film of plaster dust couldn't have been more perfect to track the comings and goings of the remaining occupants—the workmen and the missing man. No footprints led to any of the other exit doors or into the cellar. According to the job site records, the work crews (footprints showed them exiting by the front door) actually arrived at another site by 13.00 on Friday. So, just as the girl said, his were the last footprints to go all the way down the hall and into the flat…no sign of him coming out after that."
"Where exactly was she standing outside waiting, this Amy Sanders?"
"After she watched him enter through the door, Ms. Sanders decided to seek shelter, ducked under the stairwell over there," Lestrade pointed to the mustard yellow brick-sided structure that offered protection, "…'cause it started drizzling. Heavy rain looked certain. That's why the guy went to get the umbrella."
Sherlock revolved 360 to view the surrounding apartment complexes in relation to the street and the apartment. After, in swift strides, he positioned himself under the stairwell where Lestrade had indicated the young woman stood for shelter from the rain, and watched the circling flight of the house sparrows that were momentarily disturbed by his sudden presence. By the time John and Greg arrived, having followed at a more normal pace, the sparrows had returned to guard their nests under a brick causeway.
"Not yet a girlfriend. So why was she here?"
"Sorry?" Greg obviously felt Sherlock was sidetracking the line of inquiry even though he well knew the consulting detective's methods; Sherlock preferred re-creating a panoramic view of the case. Too narrow a focus would lead to missed clues.
"Not-yet-a-girlfriend would not just walk all the way here, when there are perfectly suitable meeting spots at more populated locations on Stockwell Road, like Day Lewis Pharmacy or the Cafe Madeira…. You didn't mention there were two sets of footprints going into the flat."
"And two coming back out. Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock," Lestrade interrupted with an obstinate shake of his head. "You're not suggesting Amy Sanders had anything to do with his disappearance?" Even with scarce evidence, Lestrade was convinced the girl had not been involved in any wrongdoing.
"I am certain she had nothing to do with his disappearance, just her association with the missing man may not be as 'not-yet' as she wants us to suppose."
"How does that matter? The last set of prints goes into the flat and doesn't come out. Is there anything you can tell me that's relative to how he might have gone missing?"
"Everything is relative," Sherlock corrected him brusquely. "To get to the 'how' we should ascertain the 'who' and the 'what.' So, here we have a twenty-three-year old man. Part-time student in a flat-share. One of four probably, all males. Ideal location for Victoria line and Northern line. Flatmates are still away, I presume, for a weekend holiday?"
"Bloody hell! Why am I not surprised you presumed correctly with so little to go on?" Lestrade grinned despite himself. "This you got just by viewing the exterior of the building?"
John said nothing, although he was plainly impressed.
"Know your city, Lestrade." In rapid-fire pronouncements, Sherlock explained: "In SW9, flatshares make it affordable….seen adverts like this all the time, for part-time students and hospitality workers, that sort of thing. As I understand this situation, it's clear these renovations are ongoing…so there are few if any other neighbors to help gain access. Likely, the tenants, flatmates and workmen were out when not-yet-a-girlfriend Amy was invited, specifically affording the young man and woman time alone. They were probably just going out for nourishment when he went back to retrieve an umbrella and 'poof!' vanished. The fact that, the police were called over twenty-four hours later (last night?), and the foot traffic to the back unit was not disturbed by returning flatmates; I ask you, what might be the reason for their extended absence? A holiday!"
Whilst speaking, the consulting detective had been inspecting the building façade, poking at the underside of the stairs with a small precision tool he removed from his wallet, and noting the flight of several hundred house sparrows toward the back of the unit. "I can only imagine the havoc wreaked on the evidence—complicating the footprints—when the police made their visit!" He finished with his eyes trained on John and waited.
"Well!" John exhaled, glancing down to refrain from expressing his obvious admiration out loud, and slowly turning to Lestrade, he lifted his head. "So you say, this young man….did you give us his name?"
What John had missed by looking down, Lestrade had not: a satisfied smile flickered across Sherlock's face at John's reaction. "No, John. I didn't. His name is Jimmy Phillimore. How's it you hadn't deduced that, Sherlock?"
"Don't be ridiculous. In this case, it's irrelevant." It was said with disdain, but Sherlock's smug expression changed, and he hesitated. Silently, he inputted something into his mobile as Lestrade and John continued their conversation.
"Jimmy Phillimore just went back into his own flat to get his umbrella and no one has seen him since?" The doctor cocked his head whilst processing another thought. "What did Amy do, Greg, when Jimmy didn't come out? Did she try ringing him up?"
Sherlock paused and looked up from his phone, waiting for Lestrade's reply.
"Gave him twenty minutes, a considerably patient young lady, and then called him. That's when she remembered that she was wearing his jacket, over her own."
"Huh? Oh I see." John nodded. "His phone was in his jacket pocket."
"Yeah. As the weather changed, she felt a chill. Her light coat wasn't enough, so he offered her his jacket."
"Not yet a girlfriend, but Jimmy had good intentions about Amy. An act of kindness and an act to impress." Sherlock noted aloud. "Curious Amy forgot she was wearing his jacket. This is because….the fit was familiar? So Jimmy must not be a big man. Probably slight build …hmmm, say slender, and no more than 1.63 meters; he is either a consummate gentleman or insecure about his looks. Possibly both."
"So, she says," Greg continued ignoring Sherlock's addendum, "she waited at least another twenty minutes for a bright spell, after the hard rain had finally let up. Before leaving, she walked up these stairs and—"
"—rang the doorbell to his flat." Sherlock interrupted. "Not-yet-a girlfriend didn't have a key."
"No answer. She was really getting worried or annoyed; she wasn't sure what to think. She hoped he wasn't ditching her—"
"Hmmm. So Amy's insecure, too. Whilst it certainly is immaterial to the case, perhaps she is a suitable match for Jimmy," Sherlock mused.
Lestrade cocked an eyebrow but otherwise disregarded Sherlock's remark, "—but when the police got access and had a look, there were no signs of trouble, nothing out of place…a real conundrum, if you ask me."
"Precisely why you needed to ask me. It is not a conundrum." Sherlock rebutted. "And I haven't gone in to have a look, yet. How long did she wait before she left?"
"Okay, Mr. High and Mighty, that's why you're here. I'll give you that!" Despite his retort, Lestrade took Sherlock's customary rebuff in good humor. "To answer your question, she waited another twenty minutes. Did I mention she was patient?" Casting a sideward glance toward the doctor, the Inspector used soft humor to elicit a soft laugh from John, but Sherlock was impervious to such nonsense. "She realized it was pointless to wait for any flatmates to show up (Jimmy had told her they were on holiday for the weekend), and she didn't know when the other tenants might return. That's when she decided to go home and wait for him to call."
"Whether or not they had exchanged numbers—since they were 'not yet' in a relationship," John drew some conclusions of his own, "I guess he could call his own number if he had access to someone else's phone." John paused. "But, he never called?"
"Nope. Amy started reaching out to mutual friends to tell them what happened. The more she talked it over with others, the stranger it seemed. Those who knew Jimmy well enough said it didn't sound like anything he would do. He was a considerate guy."
"Girlfriend or not, it took a while for her to contact the authorities." Sherlock gazed up the steps and slowly started to climb, inspecting the mortar of the brick sidewalls with unusual interest and thumbing another search into his mobile.
"Yeah. True." Lestrade followed the consulting detective, leaning back to talk to John who remained one step behind. "After all was said and done, she decided to call her uncle, a friend of mine—retired—a good bloke Tom is—for help. He checked out her particulars and contacted me."
Once they all reached the main door to the complex, Lestrade removed the pass key from his jacket pocket and slipped it into the lock. "Now, Jimmy's been missing for nearly thirty-two hours. As I've said before, it's not a crime scene. Flatmates have been contacted. They deny knowledge of his whereabouts. There is no obvious foul play that we can determine. So I've brought you here this fine Sunday morning to find the young man who disappeared trying to get an umbrella for his girlfriend."
"Not-yet girlfriend…!" Sherlock corrected.